Lifetime of Memories Lifetime of Lies
by Siarh
Summary: Connor comes across something from his family's past that rocks him to his very core. How could they have lied to him all these years? Dark/Angsty thoughts from both brothers. No smut, lots of angst. Not what you normally get from me.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Thank you to Rhanon Brodie for giving me the nod and listening to the original hash out of this story. And thank you to DeDe324 for hand holding and edit on this chapter. They are awesome writers who you should go check out if you have not already. **

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Connor lit a cigarette after stepping off the porch of his father's rustic home. He couldn't sleep. He hadn't been able to sleep much at all since Ma died. His brain just wouldn't turn off. So many memories, so many what ifs and whys. He had begun to regret going to America with his brother, leaving their Ma behind. They went searching for something in Boston, and what they found twas the Lord's work, no denying it. And it brought their father back to them. But they lost all those years with Annabelle.

With a hard shake of his head, and a tight scrub of fingers over his eyes and cheeks, he fished in his pocket for the truck keys he had snagged off the counter on his way out the door. He needed to clear his head, and nothing seemed to do that better than a drive.

Connor drove aimlessly through the roads outside of town, enjoying the serene cool air blowing in through the open windows. He wasn't paying attention to where he was going just that he was moving through the dark roads. It took him a few moments to realize he had stopped. He looked up and realized he was parked in front of his mother's house. He stubbed out his cigarette and blew the smoke out of his lungs before opening the truck door and stepping out into the street. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, fighting off the chill of the damp fall night.

Connor weighed his options. He could head back to the small farmhouse where his brother and father were sleeping and stare at the ceiling until dawn and come back over here in the morning with them. Or he could do something useful with his time and continue on with sorting through his mother's house, cleaning out, and packaging up a lifetime of memories.

Really it wasn't much of a decision to be made he realized, walking up to the front door. He flicked on a few lights, making his way through the silent home. He stopped in the kitchen, looking at the boxes Murphy had been packing earlier. All of his mom's dishes and kitchen ware. They had picked through what they could use at the farmhouse but the rest they would give to a charity or the church, someone who could use the stuff.

Connor still had a hard time with the fact they were selling the house he and Murphy grew up in. Annabelle had left the house to her boys, her relationship with Noah never properly healing after the three MacManus men returned to Ireland. Connor figured it was too long apart, too many frayed feelings, too many to put behind them. Especially on his mother's end of things. She was the leavee, not the leaver. She was left behind to tend to the two boys, and the family affairs. Even after she found out he was jailed shortly after the boys were born, she could never quite get past it all.

He wished he had been able to convince his brother to move into her house. Da could stay out on the farm outside of town, and the boys could continue to help him with the running of things. And it would give them a bit of space. There was a strain there, one that Connor couldn't figure out. He couldn't put his finger on what it was all about. But it didn't make it any less of a strain.

Murphy didn't want to leave Da out on the farm alone. Both of them were making up for lost time. Connor wasn't concerned with it, but it made Murphy happy. Like everything else in his world, it tended to be good enough for Connor if Murphy was happy.

He walked up the hall, gliding his hand over the wallpaper he and Murphy put up for Ma just before they left for America. She had a long list of projects that the boys had been putting off for years with a whole host excuses.

When they announced they were moving to Boston, the excuses stopped working. And they conceded to finish the list before they climbed aboard that plane with one way tickets in their hands. Ma had a new roof and front door. Her porch didn't list to one side when you walked on it. The upstairs bathroom got a new sink and tub and was retiled.

And the hallway got wallpapered. By the time they reached the wallpapering, the two sons has been looking for any shortcut, so Connor wasn't terribly surprised to see Murphy slapping a sheet of floral paper over the hole in the wall where he had put Connor's head through the sheetrock when they were younger.

Conn ran his hand over the hole, knowing exactly where it was, though he couldn't remember what they were fighting over that day. They fought over the stupidest things at times when they were kids.

He reached for the handle of the spare room that had been used to house stacks and stacks of boxes for as long as Connor could remember. His dad had been insistent on clearing the room on his own, pushing Murphy and his brother to all other parts of the house. But Connor knew they would be done packing the rest of the house long before Da got to the last box in that room.

He pushed the old door open, and stepped into the room. Connor hit the light switch, and the small table lamp in a dusty corner sparked to life. The towers of boxes seemed more ominous and daunting in the low light of the room. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his eyes gliding over the mass trying to figure out where to begin.

Careful not to disturb any system of sorting Noah had going on, Connor grabbed two boxes off the top of a far stack and lugged them down the hall, into the living room. Pushing the coffee table back from the couch, he dropped the dusty boxes to the floor before sitting down, flipping on more light.

Reaching over, he opened the top box, a box that looked as if like it had seen better days. Connor pulled out a small stack of papers to begin sorting.

It was an hour or so when Connor found it. He had stumbled across photographs of his and Murphy's childhood, postcards from people he couldn't remember, and a host of documents he was not even sure Ma should have been hanging onto for these many decades.

He pulled open a letter size envelope with an attorney's name in the return address. He pulled out a stack of papers and skimmed through them. He hit the bottom page and felt his stomach drop. Connor smoothed his hand over the old document before holding it up to the light so he could read it better.

_Adoption Documentation_

His heart thundered in his chest as he ran his eyes over the legal gibberish that meant nothing to him anyway. He looked at the lines that had been filled in by a typewriter.

_Child sex: Male_

_Birthdate: March 25, 1973_

Connor swallowed hard. It was 5 days after his and Murphy's birth date.

_Child hair: Blonde_

_Child eyes: Blue_

Child's name was vacant. Connor looked at the signatures at the bottom. His heart stopped in his chest. They were neater than he was used to but that was his father and his mother's signatures. He was positive of that. The other signature in the birth mother's space was just an **X**, and the birth father was vacant. And the date after the signatures was March 31, 1973.

Connor's heart did not just stop. It imploded, taking his soul and his reason for living with it. If he wasn't Murphy's twin, what did that make him?


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: May want to grab a tissue when you read this one. I'm out. **

**Thank you to DeDe324 for hand holding and listening to me whine about how unwhieldy Connor is.**

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Connor tried to make sense of this document in his hand. He stared at it until it the words all melted together into dark lines on a yellowed piece of paper.

Did this mean he was someone's unwanted bastard? Was he tossed out like rubbish? Thrown in a basket and left on the MacManus' doorstep with a note saying "Love him as your own"?

Skipping the now empty glass on the coffee table, Connor wrapped his lips around the end of the bottle, his eyes never leaving the paper that felt like a death sentence. Everything he knew of himself was a fucking lie. A perpetual lie built upon on a secret they kept hidden from him for 34 years.

Connor MacManus was not even a MacManus. Who the hell was he then? Who were his parents? His mother? Lady X? Some spindly girl of 14 who was promised love everlasting in exchange for one night's romp in the back of Daddy's car?

Maybe a wayward woman of the street who turned tricks in order to keep herself fed? Who became pregnant in a predominantly Catholic area that made it impossible to flush him down the drain like the unwanted thing he was?

A rape victim who couldn't face the child who was conceived out of hate?

Or worse yet ...was he the child brought into this world through incest? Connor's stomach boiled at the thought of being the direct result of an ugly, disgusting act such as child rape at the hands of her family. The alcohol and bile burned his nose as he tried to choke it back down. His eyes watered as he made for the window in the corner.

He struggled with the ancient latch as his stomach sent another push up his throat. At the last moment, he was able to get the window thrown open in time to lean out and splatter the overgrown bushes.

Eyes closed, he hung half out of the window for a few moments, allowing the cool air to temper his head and his heart, wicking the sweat that had accumulated on his face and arms away . He laid there until the pounding in his head stopped, and his heart quit racing. He tried to push the thoughts of who his mother was out of his mind and focused on the woman who had treated him like a son all those years.

Standing and closing the window, Connor moved to slump in her rocking chair in the corner, and reached for the whiskey with a shaking hand. He swished it through his mouth, cutting the horrid taste, before swallowing the fiery liquid. His stomach lurched at more alcohol, but he was able to keep this batch down.

Connor was in knots over the hell he and Murphy raised over the years. The grey hairs he caused his poor mother. Most of their more harebrained ideas were out of his brilliant schemes.

Tears long held at bay suddenly flowed down his cheeks. The hell he put that woman through... What kind of gratitude was that? She opened her home, and her heart to him and all Connor did was give her grief.

Should he even call her Ma? She treated him like her son but did he deserve it? Did he deserve that compassion?

Connor MacManus had been called any number of things in his 34 years , but a burden was not a word that sat comfortably on his shoulders. He was a burden on his poor birth mother, and he had to be given to someone else. He then became a burden on the MacManus family, especially after Da left. Ma was left to raise her own son as well as someone else's wretched kid.

No wonder his mother was always so vague as to which one was older. She must have known if she had admitted Murphy was the oldest, the boys would beg to know by how much.

At the same time, he was surprised she never let it be known that he was adopted during one of her benders. She was always letting out little secrets that should not see the light of day when she was drinking. How did this one never come out? Even when she was pissed at him and completely buckled, she never let this one go.

Why?

Why keep it from him? That's was probably the part that bothered him more than anything else. Why the secrecy? Why allow the boys to believe they were brothers, twin brothers even?

Why?

Connor took another long draw from the bottle in his hand, before going back to stare at the paper on the coffee table. He briefly shuffled through the papers behind it in the box as well as those in front, searching for another clue, but he found none.

With a disgusted huff, he stood and walked to the built in shelves by the fireplace. He grabbed a random picture album, took it back to the chair with him. The book in his lap, an all but empty bottle of whiskey in his hand, Connor traveled down memory lane, trying to find clues he missed along the way. He was certain he had not missed any, but he hadn't had this information as he did now.

He flipped through the book, his mind filling with with memories of his childhood, his family. Rarely was there a picture in there that held just one of the boys. They were always together. He paused at one image, the two of them on horseback. They couldn't be more than 3. Connor had his arms around Murphy, his own hands held the reins tight while Murph held onto the mane for support. Reaching out as if he could go back to that time through emulsion under his finger, Connor brushed his brother's face, his little brother. Tears sprung to his eyes, a lump formed in his throat.

But not his little brother.

Fuck.

Blinking to clear his eyes and his mind, Connor looked at the smiles, and tried to focus on the good times. But the memories that flooded his mind were not those that were documented in the black and white and color krome photos in his lap.

The day one of them found a black permanent marker and decided to color each other's tongue. Like always, he convinced Murphy to go first. They sat on one of the beds in their room, Murphy's tongue caught between Connor's finger and thumb as he tried to hold it still under the apparently ticklish brushes of the marker.

By the time he let go, the marker had run over the edges of Murph's tongue and formed a U-shaped goatee on his chin. Once Connor had stopped laughing, and Murphy was done pounding on him for making fun of him, the marker had bled onto Murphy's teeth. That resulted in a whole new laughfest as Murphy tried to wrestle the marker from Connor's grip to repay the favor.

By the time Ma got home, the marker was dry, and both brothers, the sheets of the bed and the wall behind them was covered in black slashes. It took them well over two weeks before the last of the ink disappeared from their skin.

Then there was the day they were about 8 or 9, he convinced Murphy to show Nola, the girl next door, his penis... by pushing it through a knot in the fence between their homes. That worked out well until the pretty 7 year old touched it, a lot. And Murphy liked it, a lot. When Ma called them inside for dinner, Murphy had a hard time [Connor had to laugh at the pun] pulling back through the rough-hewn board. He tried not to yell too much, but the amount of splinters that accumulated on his penis was too much for him and he finally let out a yelp that brought Ma from the house. Connor had heard Nola quickly disappear from the other side of the fence, but his mother saw her pretty curly head retreat.

"Whut has dat lil bitch done?" Ma asked. Murphy hid behind Connor as he tried to tuck his oversensitive member away. Their mother was not fooled by the protective stance Conn threw up and pushed him aside reaching for her dark haired son behind him. Murphy was red in the face as he tried to explain the half a dozen splinters buried in his penis. Connor was certain neither of them sat for almost 4 days after the beating they received for that one.

Murphy got in his fair share of brotherly abuse in. One day Ma left them home alone to go to work. It was one of the first times she left them home and not sent them off to stay with family or a neighbor. They were probably about 11, maybe 12. Connor got bored, and wandered out onto the roof. While he was out there, Murphy proceeded to lock every window in the upper part of their house, laughing on the other side of the glass once Connor realized he was screwed. He had walked out there at around 11 in the morning. Ma pulled back in the driveway after 6 and found him still crouched on the shingles, drenched from the rainstorm that passed through an hour earlier and Murphy napping upstairs.

And then there was the Moran home incident, the crown jewel of their nefarious youth. The abandoned Moran home sat just outside of town, and was a popular spot for teens to go and hang out. No one had live in that house for as long as the boys could remember, probably even longer than they had been around.

One day they, ok he, came up with a brilliant idea to build a fire in the ancient fireplace to try to warm them against the rain storm that was brewing outside. The fire was going good and strong by the time Connor had sweet talked Caoimhe out of her undies, finally getting her to relent to his charms. Suddenly a new burning smell filled his nose. Reluctantly pulling his eyes and mouth from her perfectly small breasts, he saw the floor around the fireplace in flames. Connor yelled for Murphy to unbury himself from between Nola's thighs, ignoring the twinge of jealousy at the thought Caoimhe still hadn't let him go that far with her yet. With the girls screaming loud enough to wake the dead, the two brothers tried to get the blaze under control. But it wasn't long before the dry floor boards were all snapping with flames and the four of them darted out into the rain, dashing for the car. Connor dropped the car into drive and tore away from the building like the devil himself was after them. Less than a mile from home, sirens rang out in the night. They looked behind them to find a cop car close. Connor had no choice but pull over. In a small town like this, the cop already knew it was him.

By the time Kevan Rafferty reached the window, the sound of multiple sirens filled the air, making the four teens looked at each other with wide eyes. "Evenin MacManus," Rafferty said, leaning down far enough to look at everyone in the car. "Where are ye off t'in such a hurry tonight?"

Connor licked his dry lips and thought up a quick lie. "Have t'get t'lasses back home 'fore curfew."

Kevan quirked an eyebrow at him. "Its hardly 10." He looked at Caoimhe in the passenger seat. "Your da want you in by 10?"

The brunette nodded, staring at her clasped hands in her lap.

He smirked before looking at Nola and Murphy in the backseat. Just 8 years older than the lot of them, Kevan had known the four of these kids since they were all in diapers, grew up next door to Caoimhe. He knew her father didn't give a rat's ass when she came in. He probably wouldn't even notice if she didn't come back home ever again; which was probably the main reason she took up with the fair haired MacManus brother.

Kevan narrowed his eyes at Connor, looking at the boy hard, noting how he stared out of the front window. "What are ye hidin, MacManus?"

"Nofin', sir," Connor had tried.

"T'ole Moran place is on fire, ye lot wouldn't happen to know anything about dat, would ye?"

The four of them were all quick to say no, making Kevan's hand twitch against the door handle. He stood and stepped back toward his own vehicle, about to call for assistance to come help him with the four of these miscreant teenagers when the radio squawked to life, calling for all officers to come help with crowd control at the fire. A good sound flame drew the public like nothing else, even with the rain in the air.

Rafferty had slapped his hand on the roof of the car and sent the four teens on their way before climbing back into his own car. With the evening shot, Connor dropped Caoimhe off before heading home. Later he sat on the hood of the car, smoking while he waited for Murphy to walk Nola home. He knew by the light on over the kitchen sink that their mother was up. And he didn't want to face her alone, especially if she had been drinking. One look at him and Ma would know what he had done. She always did. She always knew.

His Ma. But not his mother.

Chasing tears and demons with more whiskey, Connor continued to sift through the memories as the sun broke over the horizon as his world fell apart around him. Did it really matter if they weren't blood? His Ma was his Ma. And Murphy was his other half. Nothing could change that.

Or could it?


	3. Chapter 3

Murphy found his brother passed out in Ma's rocking chair in the corner of the living room. A photo album lay on top of Connor's feet. The room looked like it had been completely tossed. Every photo album was pulled from every shelf, the books in stacks bracketing the chair. Every framed photo was pulled from all the walls and every last flat surface Murphy could see. They all sat around Connor, quiet sentries keeping watch over his sleeping form.

Two boxes that were most likely older than the two brothers sat upended, their contents scattered about the room. It looked as if a whirlwind had hit the room, leaving chaos in its wake.

"Whut t'feck?" Murphy muttered as he walked to his brother, careful to not step on anything that might be of value. "Conn," he called. When his brother didn't even flinch, he reached out and grabbed his arm, giving him a shake.

Connor startled awake, his eyes opening wide and taking more than a few seconds to focus on his brother's face. "Murph?" he whispered, his eyes searching his brother's face as if he was a figment of his drunken imagination.

"C'mon ye drunkard," Murphy teased, kicking an empty bottle of whiskey against his brother's foot. "Guess dat's one way to get yer sleep."

Wincing, Connor rubbed his hand over his face mournfully. Studying his brother's face, Murphy frowned. The emotions spun past so quickly Murphy was certain he missed more than a few. What the hell had happened last night?

"Conn'r," Noah's gravel voice came from beyond Murphy's shoulders.

Pressing his hands to the arms of the chair, Conn rose suddenly, pushing Murphy to the side, his bitter blue eyes flashing at his father, eyes full of anguish and outrage. Emotions that were past anything he had ever dredged up to do any of their jobs. Tears pooled in the young man's eyes, threatening to add more streaks down his cheeks.

Noah took a step back into the dining room as his son moved swiftly, if staggeredly, toward him. "Connor, son," Noah started, startled by the younger man. Anger rolled off of him in waves. Not just anger, but pain... Pain that Murphy could feel in his bones, in the marrow. This went beyond the death of his mother. This went somewhere entirely different.

And he braced himself to find out where exactly his brother was.

"Dont ye feckin 'son' me," Connor cursed.

Noah looked stunned, hurt and confused. Murphy moved quickly to stand between the two men. He was not sure what was going on, but he needed to keep Connor from doing anything stupid.

The lighter haired brother swept a photo album off of the end table near where they stood. He opened it to a random page.

"I looked all night, Da. Where are t'pictures, Da? Of Ma 'n us in t' hospital after she had us?" Connor shoved the open book into his father's chest, making the older man step backward and grab at the book haphazardly. "Dere are only pictures of us lil ones at home."

"Conn'r, son," Noah repeated in a calm rational voice.

The growl came from deep in Connor. He thumped his hand on the book, pushing Noah backwards suddenly and abruptly. The album flew from Noah's hands as he stumbled to regain his footing.

"Why do ye call me that? 'S no' true," Connor yelled at him, moving in a menacing manner.

Jumping at his back, Murphy grabbed his brother, keeping Connor from attacking their father again. Over the years, he had seen Connor at what he thought was all levels of pissed off. But this anger was a whole new degree that exceeded the rest by leaps and bounds. Connor's whole face was deep red, the vein on his forehead looked ready to explode at any second. His words were clear, though they made little sense to Murphy.

Once he saw that Murphy had a hold of Connor, Noah bent to pick up the photo album. "Course et es," he insisted, setting the book on the dining room table, resting his hand on the cover.

Connor struggled against Murphy's grasp. "Ye're feckin liar."

Their father stepped forward, his gaze trained on Connor's eyes, Annabelle's eyes. "Ye know 'm not. What has gotten into ye?"

"I found out da feckin trut'," Connor growled.

Noah sighed, and rubbed his hand over his face. He stood there for a moment before stepping around the struggling boys. He walked into the living room.

"What are ye going on about?" Murphy interjected, completely confused about what was transpiring between Da and his brother. . "Conn, yer not makin' any sorta sense."

"Aye, but he is," Noah admitted, from behind them.  
Connor stopped struggling in Murphy's grasp. "So it's true?" he gasped out, his voice small, trying to angle his head over Murphy's shoulder to look at Noah. Murphy felt his brother's heart beat increase under his palm. He could sense the wheels turning in Connor's mind "Why didn't ye tell me?"

Noah sighed, as he walked around the boys. He nodded at Murphy to let Connor go. "There is nothin' to tell ye," Noah insisted, emphasizing the ye. His eyes were hard and unyielding as he looked at Connor.

Murphy stood motionless behind his brother, watching as the two men shared a silent conversation that for once did not register in his own mind. He glanced at the piece of paper in his father's hand. What in all of God creation were the two of them going on about? One tiny piece of paper? What could it possibly say that would cause Connor to drink himself into a stupor, and foster such a fight?

Connor visibly struggled with what Noah said, trying to down shift from pissed off to thinking stright. "Why would dere be not'in' t'tell me if 'm t'one who is-" Suddenly Connor's shoulders slumped forward and he glanced back at Murphy with a sad expression, as if his heart was breaking. Murphy looked at him, his brow puckered, trying to get a read across that twin communication line that never failed them in the past, but right now all Murphy got was a busy signal.

Stepping forward, Noah laid a comforting hand on Connor's shoulder. "C'mon," he mumbled. "Let's get some coffee in ye boff, and we can talk."

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The kitchen was oddly quiet, an unease settling over the three of them as they watched the coffee brew. Noah sat at the small table in the kitchen, a piece of paper sitting in front of him, face down. Connor sat across from him, holding his head between his palms, his eyes trained on the paper, tears dancing in his eyes. His eyes flicked to Murphy who stood against the sink, watching the two men at the table. Meeting Connor's gaze, Murph continued chewing on the side of his thumb, nervous and uncomfortable. He had no idea what was going on, but based on Connor's face, he knew he wasn't going to like the outcome.

Noah refused to say a word until the three were settled at the table, coffee in their hands. "Ye weren't supposed ta find dis out," he admitted, staring at his cup. "At leas' not like dis."

"Why?" Connor begged, his voice oddly quiet after the screaming and yelling he did earlier. "Why keep dis from us?"

Murphy looked on, still silent, his bottom lip tucked under his teeth, watching the verbal tennis match between his father and brother.

Quietly searching the boys' faces, Noah flipped the paper over and slid it to Murphy.

"Da-" Connor warned, panic at the edge of his voice as Murphy turned the paper over.

The grey haired man shook his head, his eyes downcast. "Let 'im see."

Connor hung his head, unable to watch Murphy though once he started to read, Murph didn't see either man. The lines on the page spun in his head, making it and his heart ache as he played back their conversation that passed between Connor and Da. Murphy slowly pieced it all together.

"'m adopted?" he asked softly, not looking up from the document in his hands, a heavy feeling of dread filling his stomach. He felt as though he was going to be sick.

Noah took a sip of his coffee before nodding. "Aye," he confirmed.

Murphy swallowed hard. "'N ye didn't tell me?"

"I wasn't around," Noah reminded him.

At the inclination that the fault fell at Annabelle's feet, both boys sat in quiet contemplation. His ma had been gone only a few weeks, but it felt like an eternity to Murphy already. He also knew Ma would not have done this without a good reason.

He let out a deep breath. "Tell me."

Noah took another sip before continuing. "Yer mudder, Inna, was from a small fishing village along the Baltic Sea."

The dark haired man stared at the paper in front of him like it was his lifeline. "How did I wind up here den?"

"It's a bit o a story," Noah said standing to grab the coffee pot and refilling his own cup before looking to see neither of the boys had touched theirs yet. "A man was swep' into t'harbor of her town during a violent storm. He took refuge a't'local convent; they of'n looked af'r sailors. He's only der fer t'one night. She wouldn't or couldn't tell us his name even."

"Ye knew her?" Murphy asked, disbelievingly, his eyes now trained on Noah's face.

The bearded man nodded. "Aye. She lived here wit me and yer mudder for 6 months before returning home."

The silence that filled the room was deafening. No one knew what to say. Murphy tried to wrap his head around this new piece of information. His birth mom had lived with the folks he called Da and Ma for half a year before going back to where she came from, leaving her baby boy behind. Why would any mother do that? What was so wrong with him that he had to be left behind to be cared for by another family who barely had two pennies to rub together?

Murphy shoved the adoption paper across toward Noah abruptly, fire burning in his eyes. "Just up and left me here? Why?"

"Son-"

Murphy slammed his hand on the table and stood. "Don't call me dat!"

"But ye are my son," Noah reassured, his voice the same as when he was caring for frightened lambs. "Boff o ye are me boys."

The dark haired brother stood in the middle of the kitchen, his back to the table. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

Connor stood. "Murph," he said softly stepping away from the table.

One of Murphy's arms flew out to the side, signalling him to stay put. He barely had his shit together right now. If Connor so much as breathed on him, Murph knew he would fall apart and let his brother pick up the pieces for him as he often did. But he couldn't do that right now, he needed to hear the rest of this and then he could fall apart if he wanted to. "'M 'right. Jus gimme a second." His hand came back to the front of his face, wiping at it. "Did ye happen t'leave any whiskey in t'house, Conn?" he half teased, his voice threatening to crack.

'Both Noah and Connor scoffed, the suffocating tension in the room lessening just a hair, just enough for everyone to take a deep breath

"Knowin' me girl, she'd have a bottle o' two tucked about here somewhere," Noah insisted, turning in his chair to open cupboards. After about five minutes of searching, they had located three partial bottles of whiskey, an unopened bottle of vodka and three cans of Guinness tucked in the back of the fridge. Murphy slurped two-thirds of his coffee and refilled it with whiskey while Connor cracked open a Guinness.

Once the three resettled at the table, Noah continued with the story. "Inna left here when ye boys were about tree months old. It was not an easy thing for her t'do, I assure ye."

Taking a drink from his mug, Murphy reached for the document on the table, refreshing his head. "Why did she sign me o'r t'ye but stick around fer so long if she wasn't gonna keep me?" His long finger landed on the date by her signature, sliding the paper back towards Noah.

"She knew she had to get back to the convent."

"Me mudder was a nun?" Murphy sounded beyond disbelieving.

His Da nodded. "She was juss a candidate when she met your father. Not a nun yet. "

What kind of nun slept with some random stranger one night? In a convent of all places? "Wasn't very pious den, was she?"

"Inna was human, same as t'rest o'us." Noah paused, refilling his now empty coffee cup with whiskey. "Inna Marie was a girl of barely 19 when the Lord sent her to me and Annabelle. She had met yer fadder t'way I said, and he was t'only man she ever knew biblically. It juss happened, juss one of dos tings," Noah paused enough to take a sip out of his mug. "Juss b'fer she knew she was wit child, she started hearing voices-"

Murphy scoffed. "Dis jus' gets bett' an' bett'. Me mudder was a header."

"Son," Noah corrected harshly, even though the young man was 34 years old. "I'll tolerate a lot from ye boys but disrespecting yer own mudder, especially when ye do not know the full story, will not happen."

Murphy's dropped his eyes to the table in front of him. "Sorry, Da," he said remorsefully.

"Ye have had voices call ye to the Lord's work. Dis's no different," Noah insisted. "Like tellin' ye boys to clear evil from t'earth, dese voices told Imma dat her babe was in danger. Wit t'help of t'church, she was able t'leave Russia. She was told by t'voices she would find t'help she needed, and she would know it when she found it. She found it 6 mont's later in the market down town when she ran into me and yer Ma."

Connor finally spoke up. "How did she know ye were t'ones t'help 'er?"

Clearing his throat, Noah shifted in his chair. "Me voice," he admited. "Said it was me voice she heard in 'er head all those mont's"

Murphy looked up at Connor and their twin telepathy was back. They realized, suddenly, after all these years it was their Da's voice that they heard in that Boston jail cell, calling them to do what they had to. What else did the Lord have in store for them and their father?

Noah didn't question, he just waited patiently until their attention came back to him. "Yer mudder 'n I took t'girl in. Twas t'only ting t'do once we heard t'whole story. She stayed here, in t'house and stayed off everyone's radar. She had ye within a week of Annabelle havin' Conn'r. Boff women gave birt' here in the back bedroom, t'one ye boys shared."

Turning in his chair, and looking back down the hall as if he could see the room he grew up in, Murphy tried to picture a young girl in there, giving birth. He didn't know what birth looked like, but it floored him that his mother did that without going to any hospital, all done with faith and hope she was keeping her babe safe.

"T'adoption was done in short order, n' no one but me 'n yer mudders knew that Murphy wasn't ours."

Emotions long held at bay suddenly hit Murphy full force in the chest. Tears filled his eyes, an ache filled his heart, and thoughts overwhelmed his head. "Not yers," he whispered, before standing, and stalking from the room.

Murphy headed for the room he had lived in for almost 20 years of his life. He slammed the door behind him, and slid with his back tight to the door jam. His world was crumbling around him. He didn't know what way was up, and his head was swimming with everything that had been revealed to him in the past hour.

He wasn't a MacManus. He was the bastard of some would-be Russian nun and a fisherman. Being warned by the voice of the Lord, his ma so feared for his life that she fled her home to find shelter for him. Giving him to the only parents he ever knew, she left him.

With elbows on knees, Murph slumped forward, settling his head into his crossed arms and let the tears and thoughts flow. Too much, this was all too much. He had lost his Ma, the woman who loved him unconditionally though he and Connor surely did not let her have an easy time of it. Now he lost the woman who gave him life, the one he never knew.

But had he really lost her? Maybe she just needed to be found!

That thought cleared his eyes, and made his heart pound instead of ache. Maybe he needed to find his mother, maybe that's the reason this all came out now. Rocco's voice resounded in his head- _The Lord works in mysterious ways._

Wiping his face on the sleeves of his shirt, Murphy stood. He took a deep breath and yanked open the door, only to come face to face with Connor's fist, raised to knock. With only a small smile for his brother, Murphy walked toward the kitchen, and took his seat next to Noah again.

"Where is she?" he asked. He had to find his mother, had to complete the circle. He could show her he was fine, and learn from her what else the voice told her about him.

Noah wrapped his hands around his mug and sighed. "Gone," he said simply.

Murphy nodded. "Aye, but where is she now?"

"She passed away when ye were five," Noah admitted, regret coloring his voice.

What fragile amount of rebuilding his mind and heart had done in the time it took for him to wander down the hall and talk to his Da was lost. "So dat's it den?" Murphy whispered. "Lost boff me mudder 'n me ma. Why didn't ye tell me sooner?"

"What was the point, son?" he asked. "Yer here and yer safe."

"Not so safe, though Da," Connor reminded him coming into the kitchen. "If I'd'a known dat she did all dat to keep Muph safe, woulda never have let happen what happened in Boston."

Noah shook his head. "Dat is where ye are wrong, Conn'r. If we'd told ye boys what was said, why she did what she did, what were t'chances ye never would have done anything wit yer lives?"

Murphy and Connor looked at each other as Noah continued.

"Ye would have never have gone to Boston. Never would have gotten inta t'bar fight. Never would have found the Lord's callin', wouldya?"

"But if its not safe for Murph-" he insisted.

"It wasn't safe for Murphy in Russia, Conn'r," Noah admitted. "Or maybe because of the Russians you met in Boston. But Murph's mudder knew she had to find his protector. And his protector was you."

* * *

Murphy sat on the back stoop of his father's house, staring out over the rolling topography of the land around him, lit by the full moon above. The night was quiet, the breeze was cool. He heard general rattlings and foot falls in the house of Connor and Noah cleaning up supper. An owl hooted off in the far distance, over the soft bleating of the sheep as they settled in for their evening nap.

Taking a final drag from the cigarette between his lips, Murphy tossed it to the side, and grabbed for the whiskey at his knee. Blowing smoke toward the sky, he took a long drink straight from the narrow mouth, letting the liquor settle in his belly, warming him from the inside out.

Today had definitely not gone the way he thought it would. He had planned on simply sorting through kitchenware and dishes. Maybe moving onto the sheets and blankets in the hall closet. When he got up this morning, discovering he was adopted was not on any list he had made for himself.

He took another drink, and let his mind continue to wander about. He knew he was wallowing, it was what he did. Connor was the planner, he was the worrier. The ying to his yang, the up to his down. They were meant for each other, two halves that didn't know how to exist without the other, couldn't exist without the other. The news that one of them was adopted didn't change any of that.

Murphy jumped as Connor's leg appeared in his perifery view. "Didn't hear ye come," he mumbled, tugging the cuffs of his shirt over his hands and wiping again across his face.

Connor wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulder, tucking him in close. "Ye alright?"

The (now officially) younger brother nodded his head, as he settled his shoulder under Connor's arm and tucked his head into the other man's neck. "Will be I tink. A lot to take in, aye?"

Connor nodded. "Aye. Did it meself last night. Alone." He kissed the forehead in front of him. "But yer not alone, Murph. Not den, not now."

The tears were back, as Murphy burrowing further into Connor's embrace, slipping an arm around his waist. The two hung onto each other, their bond not broken by this news but rather strengthened by their love for each other. They had been together for 34 years; this wasn't going to change anything. Connor was his brother, same as Da was his father and Ma was his knew his time with Rocco proved that family went beyond blood.

Family was family.

* * *

_Translation: _

_Header- Irish slang for crazy person._

* * *

**AN: Thank you to Sillypants324 who held helped me work alot of the kinks out of this chapter, and listened to me whine about all facets of this tale. She is currently in the middle of a rewrite of one of her stories but was kind enough to come and help me out when I needed her. Go check her work out! She is a great writer.**

**Please leave me a note in the comment box and let me know what you think of this tale. This one was a doozy to write and i really would love some feedback- good, bad, indifferent- Id want to hear what you think. **


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